i'm just a kid who grew up scared enough to hold the door shut
by Mashpotatoe Queen
Summary: Damian gets deaged into a five year old. It should be funny, but a pint-sized assassin and all it implies will never be smooth sailing.


***Chapter Title from Eight, Sleeping At Last***

******WARNING******

** Mentions of Past Childhood Abuse**

**...**

"Oh my god," whispers Dick, and his eyes are just about as big as they can get.

"Oh my god," he says again, and Batman besides him grunts and kneels low, reaching a patient gloved hand out.

"Nightwing, not the time."

"But, B, he's- he's so _small."_

And indeed, the tiny five year old in front of them is rather small, staring at them with narrowed eyes, back perfectly straight and frown on his lips.

The costume no longer fits, drooping low on little shoulders and pooling on the ground below. Damian hasn't said a word since the transformation, hadn't even moved the whole time it took them to knock out the villain of the day, had just watched with the same neutral expression.

Batman leans forwards anyway and murmurs, "Do you know who I am?"

A nod.

"Father."

Dick makes something of a cooing sound at the voice, and the child snaps his gaze towards him, not necessarily angry so much as curious and suspicious.

"Do you know who he is?"

Damian, still looking at Nightwing, shakes his head.

"No."

Batman sighs, and it sounds far more like Bruce than it has any right to be.

"Of _course. _Okay, kiddo, let's go."

Dick smirks, because it is a little known secret that Bruce drops pet names left and right when he's tired or exasperated or surrounded by small children, and the sight of Batman crouching on a dusty warehouse floor reaching out for a pint sized kid who's staring at him completely unimpressed is sort of fantastic.

But then the moment draws out longer and longer, and the five year old just keeps staring at the open arms waiting to pick him up like they're something foreign, and Dick feels something in his heart clench small and tight and angry, feels something in his face fall.

Especially when, after a minute of careful deliberation, the kid finally reaches out, slips his fingers in Bruce's palm, and gives it a tentative handshake.

Something in Batman's face must darken- and Dick wonders if the older man wants to punch Talia in the face as much as he does- and Damian must see it, cause his face shutters off and he immediately backs up, one steps, two steps, three steps, feet bracing themselves as if readying for a blow.

(Dick really, _really _wants to punch Talia in the face.)

Nightwing sighs, steps forward, and- moving so slowly it would be funny, if not for the situation- reaches out for the kid and picks him up, shifting his stiff as a board body so that he could carry him comfortably, being incredibly careful to keep his own body tension free and relaxed as well.

(Ten year old Damian had been like this, too, at first, had responded to physical touch too-stiff and too-formal. Had protested loudly to being carried or hair ruffled or tickled or anything else. But he had _protested. _Had been loud and present and angry, and _god _Dick knew that growing up with the league of assassins must have been awful, must have been truly traumatic to give the now eleven year old so many issues. But it's different, seeing him so freaking _small _and still expecting to come to blows over mistakes and misjudgments, and this version of Damian doesn't even protest, doesn't even try to avoid it, not really, just sort of stands there and _expects _it.)

He and Bruce meet gazes over the top of the boy's head, and both sets of eyes are angry through the lenses.

* * *

When they get back to the cave, they run tests to make sure nothing is seriously wrong, and all the others crowd around the small child with a sort of morbid curiosity. Damian stares back with that same neutral expression, the only tell-tale sign of his bewilderment and discomfort being the way his fingers keep twitching, as if wanting to grab something.

(Dick wonders if it's a sword, and feels that angry knot tighten into something ugly in his chest.)

After determining all it should take is a bit of magic to make things return to normal- something attainable in another two days when Zatanna comes back from off world- Bruce takes Damian up to bed, they all congregate around each other in a sort of stilted silence.

And then-

"He's too quiet," Stephanie says, subdued, "kids aren't supposed to be that quiet. It's not natural."

Cassandra makes a small humming sound, fingers tracing patterns no one can see onto the top of a display case.

"Assassin," she says in an almost-whisper, and it is too loud in the echoing cave, "Broken down. Pieces. Built up ugly."

They all fall silent, after that.

* * *

Upstairs, Damian stands still and in position exactly where Bruce puts him down, staring up at him as if waiting orders.

(He probably is, and the moment Bruce realizes this it makes him feel very tired and very old.)

He kneels low, offers a pair of pajamas that Alfred had run out to purchase when he had gotten the call. Damian stares at them, and then at Bruce, grabs them and starts putting them on with the same efficiency of a soldier in the barracks

"Do you- ah- need any help?"

Awkward, awkward. Bruce was never good with children, not really, and he never had a child so small as this, so young, with tiny little hands and tiny little feet and a face soft and round enough to be just out of toddler-hood.

_I could have had this, _he thinks, and he looks at this small hurt child and something aches in his scarred beating heart, _I could have helped you, I could have protected you, I could have kept you safe._

Maybe, in another life. But not this one.

In this one, Damian freezes yet again, glances at him curiously and wearily out of the corner of his eyes, shakes his head.

"No, Father."

The boy doesn't protest when Bruce lays him down in his bed, doesn't complain when he tucks him in, but he does flinch when he lifts a hand to run it through soft downy hair, cut short and close to the scalp.

Thy both fall still this time, staring at each other, and then Bruce stands and backs away.

"Good night, Damian."

Damian doesn't respond, and it hurts more than he thought it would.

* * *

The next morning, Damian is missing, and after half an hour's worth of frantic searching Dick finds him curled up asleep in front of the false fireplace in one of the many sitting rooms.

He takes a moment to breathe in relief. He takes a moment to calm his beating heart. He takes a moment to push away worse case scenarios and potential emergencies, and then he sends a text to the rest of the family that the kid is found and in no harm.

Then he goes to wake the kid up.

Except, of course, the minute he touches Damian's shoulder, the boy wakes up and _attacks _him, landing blows with a startling efficiency that leaves Dick floundering for a moment before he carefully, carefully subdues his pint sized attacker and tucks him close to his chest, restraining him.

"Whoaa, Dami, it's okay, it's okay, it's just me, it's just Dick, I'm not going to hurt you, you're okay, you're okay, it's just _me-"_

_He doesn't know who you are, idiot, _he thinks, but Dick ignores that part of himself and just tucks Damian closer.

(When Dick had first given Damian a hug, the eleven year old had thought he was attacking him. When Damian failed a training simulator for the first time, he had been wary and suspicious for days until Dick could convince him that there would be no repercussions. When Damian had first come to the manor, he checked his room for bugs and recording devices every time he went in.)

_("I don't understand this," _Damian had admitted in a moment of particular vulnerability, quiet and cracking and scared and so very strong, _"I don't understand any of this. I don't understand y o u," _and Dick had held him until he stopped shaking and vowed that one day the kid _would.)_

The small version of Damian in his arms stops fighting goes stiff once more, and Dick puts him down and smiles, even though he doesn't feel like it.

"Apologies," says the kid, "I thought you were an assassin."

Dick's breath chokes in his throat, and when the words come out they come out strained.

"No problem."

They fall into silence, older and younger, blue on blue.

And then-

"What were you doing out here, Dami? We were really worried."

This gets an emotional response, and Damian blinks and his eyes widen and he starts backing up again, goes, "Sorry, my room was left unlocked and I thought that meant permission was granted for me to-"

Damian is staring at him, and he's so freaking small, and that tiny show of vulnerability flickers out in his eyes like a blown out flame on a candle and he goes still and emotionless once more, arms coming up to wrap around himself almost subconsciously.

"Sorry," he says again, quieter now, slower, "I won't do it again."

_Oh, kiddo-_

"It's fine," Dick says, and he doesn't know what to do with this Damian who does not have years and years and years to build up a protective shell made of solid steel, doesn't know how to reach him, how to get through to this five year old boy who gets woken up and assumes it's _assassins._

It makes him angry.

It makes him so, so sad.

* * *

Three days later, Zatanna arrives and lifts the spell, leaving a shivering eleven year old in the five year old's place, weary and confused but no worse for the experience. Damian snaps at Dick for hugging him after tolerating it for a good ten seconds, pulls on clothes that fit just like they're supposed to, and demands to go on patrol just as usual.

Bruce doesn't let him, for caution's sake, and sends him to bed.

And everything returns to normal.

Except-

Bruce sneaks into his kid's room right before heading out, and Damian is curled up under his covers and he is still quite small and quite young, and all he can think is _look at you, look at you-_

_I'm going to help you, to protect you, I'm going to keep you safe-_

And when Bruce runs his hair through soft hair growing long, Damian does not flinch, just blinks up at him with those knowing eyes that still have a world to experience before they are grown.

"Good night, Damian, " he murmurs, and presses a kiss to his child's forehead.

And quietly, quietly, when Bruce is almost out the door-

"Good night, Father."

And it is not much, but it is a start.

(It is a beginning, and it is enough.)


End file.
